


Aphotic

by sparly503



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fighting, slightly-more-benevolent-than-canon Michael, vengeful Lucifer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-13
Updated: 2012-10-13
Packaged: 2017-11-16 06:06:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/536318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparly503/pseuds/sparly503
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He looks at his brother with sad eyes and searches for the gold. - Michael meets his brother on a dark night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aphotic

**Author's Note:**

> Ohmydays finally finished this fic. I started it so long ago. Can be read as Michael/Lucifer, there are undertones of it but it's not necessary. Vengeful Lucifer & slightly-more-benevolent-than-canon Michael.  
> Don't know, don't own, don't sue :)

He senses him before he steps out of the dark, before the shadows evolve to form that shape - half human, half true – the might of his wings folded behind the mirage of his vessel. Michael turns, prepared, but now is not the time, not ever. The smirk on his brother's face tells nothing.

"I knew you would come," he says and the truth lies in the air, heavy and challenging. _Why did you come?_ He can't ask because he knows the answer.

"You've made no move to stop me," Lucifer replies smoothly but his words are wrapped in ice, sharp like knives. He steps further into the light, uncurls his wings slightly and watches Michael so closely he can feel it burn on his face, like they used to in Heaven, when it was light they bathed in, glory and peace, nothing like here on this cold, broken planet, torn apart by war. "You wished me to come."

_I did not,_ Michael thinks. His destiny is set in stone, written by the hand of God, and yet he wants nothing of it. Fate is cruel, and he hates it as much as he respects it. He looks into Lucifer's eyes and sees through the grey, fixes on the flecks of gold that have always been there. They are angel's eyes, not ones of the devil, and when he moves his head he can see what little light there is flash in them. He steps forwards.

"It is not our time, brother, what do you want?"

Lucifer laughs coldly.

"I am not your brother," he says, "and why are you so set on rules and timelines? Have I not proven them wrong?"

"If anything you have proven them right," Michael says and he hopes for a twinge of anything in Lucifer's face - anger, amusement, hatred - but he gets nothing. "And you have always, and will always, be my brother."

Lucifer steps forward again, his mask impenetrable, his mouth set.

"Would you kill a brother?" he asks, as though asking the least significant question in the world.

"I have to."

"So be it."

And with that he surges quickly towards him, catches him in surprise and trapped by the shock, Michael finds himself up against the wall, feels the rough brick on the back of his neck and the solidness against his spine. Lucifer has one arm across his chest, the other pinning one of his hands to the wall and although his vessel is strong, Michael could be free in an instant. Instead he looks at his brother with sad eyes and searches for the gold.

"Why must you do this now? I will not harm you today. I don't want to harm you at all."

"Then why must you hunt me?" Lucifer asks, his tone dropping to almost a hiss. Desperation underlays the bitterness and Michael doesn't miss it. He feels guilt glitter in his chest like glass, guilt for what he has already done and for what he has to do, and for a moment his breath catches on a series of transgressions that he ought not to consider sins at all. He wants to leave here, escape the blame in Lucifer's voice, but he cannot. It isn't his job to run away.

"Because it must be so," he says, and even his own tone is disgusted. He knows Lucifer notices because the arm presses more insistently against his chest and the fingers around his wrist tighten hard enough to leave bruises. Michael draws his Grace in and doesn't let himself heal from the pressure. He wants these bruises to stay.

"You don't agree with what you must do." It is a statement, not a question, and there's no point in lying now. Michael lowers his head. "Then don't do it."

"I am not what you are," Michael says, and he feels angry at Lucifer for repeating what started this, the First War, the second one. "I do not stray from the path of our Father, I will not rebel."

"And what am I?" Lucifer returns, silk over steel, sweet wine over poison. "A monster? A killer in the dark? The big, bad wolf?" He leans in so his breath washes over Michael's jaw, ice on fire. "Don't you remember Heaven, _dear brother?_ "

Michael stills beneath Lucifer's touch because yes _of course_ he remembers, Heaven when it was good, Heaven when his brothers were united, Heaven when he had the Morningstar to fly with him, Heaven when the unity of them together, their Grace, their essence, was one of the most formidable and beautiful things in the universe. He never forgot, how could he, when the punishment of a time too perfect is still being carried out, when _he_ is still paying the price because _Lucifer_ is.

"It was you," Lucifer continues, "it was because of you I fell."

"No," Michael protests, "it was your pride, your arrogance."

"And your love."

The words are spoken, no longer bitter but honest, completely and brutally honest. _He's right_ , Michael thinks, and he's known it all along. It was Michael's love, for his sharp, shining brother, that exceeded any parallels to his love for anything else, the humans, the angels, and perhaps – and dare he think it? – his Father. It was Michael's love that forced his Father's hand, that started the war. Lucifer's insolence had covered it well, but Michael's always known, if only he'd loved a little _less,_ if only Lucifer had kept his love a little _better,_ if only he hadn't let unruly foolishness cloud his mind and incur his Father's anger, then his brother wouldn't be paying a price which was designed for him. And he wouldn't be eternally punished by seeking to destroy the one who he'd only wished to protect.

"Lucifer…" he starts, but his voice gives out on him and he ends up just staring searchingly into his face. _Can't you see how much I love you? Can't you see how much this hurts?_

Lucifer's open honesty is wiped from his face and his lips draw back in a sneer. Michael flinches once at the pure hatred on his face – why did he want to see it before? – and then again when he feels the cool edge of a blade press against the side of his neck. He doesn't know how Lucifer conjured it, and doesn't really care, because it won't harm him much, even with the Enochian magic that flows through it. He can feel the buzz of it, can sense the sigils carved upon the metal, and when he turns his head slightly it cuts into his skin, leaving a shallow trail of red. Lucifer watches it heal, his eyes greedy, almost as if he wants to taste the blood before it disappears, and Michael almost wants to let him.

But it is too late and if he moved again it would be inviting unnecessary injury.

"What is your purpose?" he asks Lucifer and Lucifer's eyes flash gold.

"I don't want to die," he says, "and luckily I've got a few tricks up my sleeve."

"You can't defy God's law."

"No," Lucifer murmurs, his voice deceptively soft again, "but you can. _Defend yourself!_ "

The last sentence is said as a shout and Michael jolts, the blade splitting his flesh with ease and roaring pain through his body. Instinct makes him shove Lucifer away with all his might (and Lucifer goes flying, because all his might is _a lot_ of might) and he hears him laugh, deep and mocking, like it's a game. Michael heals the gash on his neck with his Grace but it's barely gone when Lucifer is upon him again, knife in hand, lunging towards him.

"What- what are you… _doing,_ brother?" Michael gasps as the blade pierces his ribs, and then again as it is pulled out and slashes at his jaw. He grabs hold of Lucifer's hands and holds them whilst the younger angel struggles but before he can truly reassert the situation, Lucifer has slipped away and is coming back at him, shooting under his arm and aiming for his spine.

" _Enough!_ " Michael shouts, pinning Lucifer like he had him pinned earlier and not a moment too late he feels the familiar weight and fit of his one true weapon in his hand. _My sword._ "Enough," he repeats, leaning the weight of the sword against Lucifer's stomach so he can have no illusions to how much more powerful Michael is now. Strangely, when Michael looks at him, his eyes gleam, and a smirk tugs at his lips.

"Going to kill me now, are you, Michael? I thought it wasn't 'our time'."

Cold rushes through Michael and he's not quite sure why.

"I am not," he says, "but I am not going to let you attack me either. Tell me, brother, what is the reasoning behind it? I will do you no harm."

Lucifer laughs again. It's mocking like before, but colder this time, and it only serves to wind the ice around Michael's gut tighter.

"You have done me more harm than anyone else."

_You have done me more harm than anyone else._

_Yes,_ Michael thinks. _I'm sorry,_ Michael thinks.

"Do you hate me?" He looks directly at Lucifer, no lies, no secrets. He knows the answer. He knows it'll hurt. But he also has a thought, a nasty thought that grows in the back of his mind, a reprieve, and as much as he tries to push it down ( _no, think of Father's word_ ), it takes root, wrapping tendrils around his mind and staying there like a parasite. _An answer to this whole mess. A saving grace._

"Yes," Lucifer whispers back. His face is taut, his expression calculating, but there's a curiosity in those eyes that senses something's working its way into Michael's brain and wants to know what.

Michael laughs and suddenly it all seems so simple. The ultimate punishment, one must die at the hand of the other, one must lose life and the other must live with the guilt, and why should it be that way around? He takes Lucifer's hand and for a second just holds it. Lucifer stills and his eyes widen ever so slightly before the rigidness returns. Then he releases his grip on his sword and hands it to Lucifer, curling his fingers around it.

"Then kill me," he says, and everything is silent.

Lucifer doesn't move and it's clear he's waiting for the trap to reveal itself. When he finally speaks it sounds snide and scathing but there's still an edge of uncertainty to his tone.

"Well," he smirks, gripping the sword even tighter as if to make sure Michael doesn't take it back, "I wanted to impale you upon your own sword but I didn't realise you'd make it this easy."

Michael tries to ignore the hurt that clutches at his chest and stays where he is, too close and too far. _This works. Go on, brother, spend all your hate. Let this be over. I am bending to your will. I am fulfilling destiny._

"But why?" Lucifer's voice breaks into his thoughts. Michael stares him straight in the eye and gives him honesty, all that he can give.

"Because I know that as much as I love you, you love me." Lucifer's laugh at this is shallow and quick, and his look is contemptuous, but before he can interrupt Michael continues. "And I also know that you hate me in equal measure."

This stills Lucifer and he waits for Michael to say more, but his grip on the sword hasn't loosened and the gleam in his eye hasn't faded.

"Fate has a funny way of working out one way or another. One of us has to die. One of us has to kill our brother. But I don't hate you, Luce, I don't even resent you anymore. This is _tiring_. And I can't kill you, I couldn't before, I can't now. But you," and here he takes a step back and gestures with his hands to emphasise his point and the distance between them, "you're angry. So angry. And I understand that, I do. You hate me," the words taste bitter in his mouth, "and if it's this way then maybe in the end you'll stop hating me. Maybe you could forgive me, eventually."

"What, like you've forgiven me?" Lucifer asks, harsh and unevenly. When he fills the gap between them the slope of his shoulders looks defensive but a second later that weakness is gone. His face goes blank, flattening out his features back to that impenetrable mask. "In the end you _do_ defy our Father. No matter how prettily you put it, Michael, in the end you're just as bad as me. The good son? _The worst._ "

Lucifer raises the sword, just a little, and Michael's eyes flutter shut. He wants to block it out, the coldness radiating from Lucifer, and his Grace just beyond, out of reach, but he doesn't want to block out the blow. This needs to happen. He doesn't flinch when he feels one of Lucifer's hands on his jaw. He wonders where the knife went.

"Look at me," Lucifer demands, and Michael obeys. He sees surprise flicker fleetingly in his eyes as if he didn't really expect him to respond to his orders. It disappears before he can catch a hold of it. "You really want to die."

It's meant to be a question but it sounds level, like a statement. Michael shakes his head.

"Of course not. But it is right. There is nowhere we could go, nowhere in the whole universe we could hide, if we ran from this instead of embraced it."

"Run? From God, who neither cares nor is around to see it through."

"Just because he isn't in front of us does not mean he's not here."

"It doesn't mean he's not here?"

Lucifer's laugh sounds almost like a sob and just like that every resolve and resolute barrier in him seems to shatter. He doesn't throw the sword down but he drops his arm to his side and contracts the muscles in his hand to a pressure on Michael's jaw. The gold in his eyes shines through strongly, light and power and essence that he'd been restraining and his lips crook up in the imitation of a smile.

"You haven't changed, brother," and Michael scarcely has the time to take in the familial title, "you still believe our Father is here for us."

"He is."

"Maybe," Lucifer concedes, "but he's taken a backseat either way. Don't you see," he says, and his eyes look a little desperate, all former disgust gone, "he won't do anything about it. Fate isn't being run by him now, it's being run by us. We're carrying out things which we think we should when really, we don't have to. Michael, listen to me. We don't have to do any of this."

"You have to kill me," Michael says calmly, though his stomach churns at Lucifer's words and something horribly similar to hope beats in his heart.

"You're not listening!" Lucifer protests. He moves his hand to grip Michael's neck. "We don't have to kill each other."

"You hate me," Michael says and Lucifer's hold loosens for a second.

"Hate is born from love," he replies softly, "and there was none I adored more than you. Do you think that changes? You were right. For every bit I despise what you've done, I have infinite love for what you are. I don't want to kill you. I thought perhaps I did. But I want you dead no more than I wanted any other of our brother's dead and certainly far less. Michael, it doesn't have to be this way. We can walk away."

_We can walk away._

"You make it sound so simple."

"It _is_."

That glimmering sliver of hope shines before him for a moment, within reach and so close, before it fragments, splintering like bone and leaving him in a dark alley, with the brother he betrayed and the path he's tried so desperately to stay on.

He considers taking the sword but he's afraid Lucifer might see it as an act of aggression, and that's not what it would be - so he settles on a mask of deception, even though it causes his grace to throb, knowing that that look of careful, restrained, almost-happiness on his brother's face is going to be shattered too.

"Maybe it is," he says softly, and he feels a wave of relief roll off Lucifer.

"It _is_ ," he repeats, and his weapon-laden hand starts to relax. _Yes, that's it. Let go._ But he doesn't, completely. Michael can see Lucifer still doesn't entirely trust him; that's understandable. He can see Lucifer still thinks there might be a trick somewhere involved, if Michael were capable of trickery.

Maybe he is, just this once.

"I'm sorry," he says, and what he means isn't what it sounds likes. He thinks of heaven before and after the war, thinks of this circle, of light, of life, death, supernovas, endings, beginnings. He thinks of everything in existence and, for one terrifying, glorious moment, feels like his Father. He feels like his brother. Perhaps he even feels human, in the woven inexplicable link that binds the three.

He shifts forwards slightly and gently, lightly places his hand on Lucifer's on the sword, without reserve or hesitance, and brushes the skin there before tightening his hand. Lucifer starts, shocked, he thinks, and in aversion of that familiar tinge of betrayal clouding his face, he speaks again.

"You've always had the upper hand," he laughs dryly, "always so endless, burning forever. Beautiful star, I never knew loneliness before you left, I never knew loveliness before you were. I cannot rebel but I can do this."

Something is dawning on Lucifer's face, fierce and helpless.

" _No_ -"

"Yes," he says, "this is how it must be."

He grips the sword tightly, angles it so, his palm over his brothers knuckles and-

_Anguish_. _Agony._

Igniting, blazing, scorching and ice; ice and elements and the stars he sees are born of memories. Chasing the sun, magnificence in battle and there, there is his family, even his father. And it hurts, _oh_ it hurts, but it's not bad, it's right, all he wanted all along.

There, underneath it all, he can feel Lucifer's hands, clutching onto his forearms desperately, stopping him from falling. Michael looks up at him and though everything's a haze, his features are crystal clear.

"You stupid, _ignorant_ – what have you done?" Lucifer cries, and _that_ hurts badly. "How can I save you?"

"You can't," Michael smiles, "you already have."

" _No_ ," and his brother really is crying. Michael can't remember if he ever has before. "You can't leave me alone again. Your theory won't work, I don't want you to die, I don't hate you, _don't leave me alone again_."

"I'm sorry," Michael murmurs, as the light fades round the edges of his vision and his body begins to collapse, "I couldn't do it all. I couldn't defy everything. I can give you this though."

"But what are you giving me?" Lucifer weeps angrily. His nails dig into Michael's skin but the pain is insignificant. "You are giving me nothing at all."

Michael doesn't reply. He can feel it coming, the end, and he wonders what's beyond it. Perhaps his Father. Perhaps nothing. He doesn't really care. Everything seems to make more sense. _Lucifer might not see it now but he will_ , Michael thinks, _he will_. _I love him._

And he would say as much but now his tongue is burning, his limbs leaden and from his core he feels the pinprick of light grow, stronger and stronger, and the haze is gone, up, up, until –

_Anguish. Agony._

_Freedom._

And somewhere far away his brother sobs, calls out furiously into the night for someone to help or to hear, and tries to tell the seared shadows that he's done nothing, that fate has won, because his hand is still on the sword that slayed the one he loved more than anything and his head is going to carry that guilt with him forever.

And his heart wants to turn the sword on himself and that's the final tragedy of it all;

the stars that burn the brightest always burn alone.

**Author's Note:**

> The last line is using artistic license, I'm lying. Bright stars actually tend to burn the quickest, so in a sense, probably not alone. :)


End file.
